Pull Read Free

shakes his head patiently. He runs his hand across his bald dome and then squeezes the back of his neck, like he’s trying to rein himself in. Then he leans forward again. No finger jabs. No raising his voice. “Derrick,” he starts, “there are a bunch of coaches in this state who wouldn’t care that you wound up in jail last night. They wouldn’t care if the drugs were yours. Hell, they’d barely care if you were selling. They’d only care about getting you in uniform for the season.” I cross my arms and look away. I want to say, Well, yeah. That’s what a good coach does . But instead I just take what’s coming. “I care more about this school, about the way we want to do things, than I care about that first game,” he says. Then he narrows his eyes, digging into me just a little. “And I sure as hell care about those things more than I care if your feelings get hurt.”
    I scan the wall behind him. Bare. Most coaches would have plaques or trophies or some kind of mementos from their best seasons. For Bolden the reminder of his best seasons is right in front of him. I’m the one that gave him two straight sectional titles and a regional title. And I’m the one who can get him a big, fat state championship ring this year. Still, I had my chance to get out from under his wing. I couldhave transferred, but I didn’t. So now getting mad at Coach Bolden’s discipline would be like getting mad at the winter for being cold. “Okay, Coach,” I say. “I’m sorry.” Really, what else can I say at this point?
    Bolden flashes a brief smile and then yanks open a desk drawer. “I want you to understand something,” he says. Out comes a folder. He slaps it on the desk and opens it. Inside are a few pages with my name at the top. I can tell right away they’re game logs—full stats for every game I played my first two years at Marion East. Bolden drags his finger across the page like he’s reading a medical chart. “There’s so much to like here,” he says. “Probably why you’ve got a big stack of mail from schools all over the country. But you know what it tells me?”
    He eyeballs me, but I don’t answer. He keeps looking at me now, even though his finger is still trailing across the page.
    â€œIt tells me your high school career is halfway over,” he says. “That means two things, Derrick. The first is that now you’re an upperclassmen and a leader. I can’t take it easy on you. I have to come down on you or every other player on the team will test me. But the second is more important to you. Being a junior means the word potential no longer applies. As a freshman, everyone looked past it when you had a bad night. Last year, when you struggled for a month, nobody recruiting you blinked. Get a technical? Cough up six turnovers? Didn’t matter—because you had potential . Well, you hit junior year and nobody talks about potential anymore. They want to see results. So listen.” He leans forward a few inches further, like he’s going to reach across the desk and grab me by the collar if I don’t pay attention. “None of those schools will stop recruiting you for what happened last night. They sure didn’t cool on you even after you gotoutplayed in State last year by the Kernantz kid at Evansville Harrison. But if you keep screwing up—you’re the one with weed on you next time or you start a fight on the court or you have a string of bad games—a few of them are gonna stop coming after you. They’ll start thinking you’re just one more guy who never lived up to his potential.”
    With that, he points to his door. Conversation over. As I leave, though, he gives me one parting shot. “You’re a big boy now, Derrick. That means you have to be on it all the time.”
    Damn. Welcome to junior year.
    Of course Uncle Kid’s